My Best Man Read Free

for a beverage, ma’am?”
    “I’d like a Diet Seven-Up,” the woman snips, “and no peanuts.” I’ll take hers,” the guy sitting next to her says.
    Amity hands the man two bags of peanuts, winks, and says, “Hope everything comes out OK.” Then she pours the woman her beverage, lays the napkin gently onto her tray, and sets the drink down precisely, as if this were a Japanese tea service.
    I continue. “My boyfriend, Matthew …”
    When the rock-solid guy in the Texas Rangers baseball cap hears me, he looks as if he’s going to puke. When I pause to take his drink order, he looks at me in disgust and shakes his head. I keep forgetting that I’m not insulated by academia anymore, that some people in the real world won’t take a drink from a gay person.
    “Matthew was one of those phony-baloney people who majored in psychology so he wouldn’t have to deal with his own feelings. My dad’s body is barely cold, and my boyfriend doesn’t think a thing about breaking up with me. Drink, ma’am?”
    The woman declines, not because I’m gay, I think, but because she’s creeped out by talk of my dad’s dead body. “What about your momma?” Amity asks. “She’s already remarried,” I answer.
    “G’yaw, Bubba. People move fast around you! Beverage, sir?” The gentleman orders a hot Bloody Mary.
    “One spicy B.M. coming down the pike,” Amity announces as if the peanuts are working on her.
    “My mom is one of those resilient Midwest women,” I say. “Onward and upward. She wastes no time.” I hand out two Pepsis and notice that my drawer of peanuts is empty. “I need poop inducers.”
    She happily throws me two bags, I catch one, miss the other. “Gay guys can’t catch!” she yells. People turn in their seats. I’m embarrassed, but there’s something so honest about her I know she’s not trying to harass me. Somehow, I ignore the stares. We move on.
    By the time we get to the last row, I’ve poured out more of my innards than I have soda, juice, and coffee. I’ve explained that with my father gone, my boyfriend gone, and my mother’s new surname and life, I feel left behind. Lost. No family. No school peers. Nobody to hang with. The only thing I’ve edited is the existence of my brother. I just can’t stand to talk about him right now not since the reading of the will. Through it all, Amity is an extraordinary listener, as if everything I’m saying is absolutely fascinating, She has an instinct for when to be quiet and when to make a joke, and even though I’m a little needy now, she’s cool enough not to make me feel like some pathetic washout. I’m grateful.
    Near the end of the flight, I stand with Amity and Jacqueline in the rear galley. Amity breaks open a bottle of champagne she’s taken from first class and pours rations into three Styrofoam cups …… so no passenger will know what we’re drinking and we toast to “New friends!” as Amity warmly puts it. The flight attendant at
     
    the front of the plane, in first class, ignores us. “How come she hasn’t come back here?” I ask.
    “She’s one of those girls who makes the mistake of thinking that, because she’s working first class, she is first class. Misguided.”
    I laugh. We down the champagne. I learn that Jacqueline and Amity are roommates, both twenty-six years old. They share a house near the DCU campus in Dallas. They each give me their phone numbers to their separate phone lines, and I tell them that I’m in the process of moving and will call with my new number. The truth is, Matthew ended it so quickly that I have nothing set up.
    When the flight lands, I politely say my goodbyes at the front door and tell Amity it was nice to meet her. She agrees, then yells, ” “Bye, Harry! Love your guts!” Once I’m off the jet I decide to wait until Amity deplanes and ask her if she’d like to go for a late lunch. I’m standing there, in the gate area, when she exits the jetway, and just as I’m ready to